


Wax Wings and Cloudy Days

by DreamingPagan



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, In which I play with mythology because it's what I do, awkward first meetings among found family is my jam, help I've fallen into mythology and I can't get up, in which Admiral Hennessey wants vengeance and Thomas wants to be a real boy again, in which Hennessey and Thomas come to an agreement based on loathing the same person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 06:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11731548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: Hennessey does not rescue Thomas from Bedlam from sympathy. He does it out of pure, unadulterated fury.For James, Thomas is willing to play a revived Icarus.





	Wax Wings and Cloudy Days

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely no idea what this is. My brain spit out the idea one night, CotD was going slowly, and here we are, with a mythology-based AU oneshot. Enjoy it?

The man they pull out of Bethlem can scarcely be called such.

He has no idea why he is doing it at all, truly. It is not, Alexander Hennessey thinks, that he has any affection for Alfred Hamilton’s wretched son - certainly not. He could scarcely be more incensed with the entire family at the moment and perhaps that is why he is doing this, truly. He has called in every last favor he is owed. Bartered away amounts of money he can scarcely afford, bribed and threatened and outright pressed a few men whom England will scarcely miss but whose noble fathers certainly will as a warning to others more useful - and more stubborn, and all because he wants, more than anything, to see Alfred Hamilton burn for what he has done. Because he desires to see the nobleman twist in a gibbet of his own designing, and there is only one man in England that the overgrown spider has ever shown any sign of fearing.

That man currently sits across from him, watching him warily.

“Why?” Thomas Hamilton croaks. He sounds, Hennessey thinks, like a rusty hinge, his voice coarsened either from disuse or screaming, he does not know which. His shoulders are hunched, as if waiting for a blow at the question, and Hennessey looks into his blue eyes, unflinching, as he answers.

“For James,” he answers.

Thomas flinches visibly at the name, and for the first time, Hennessey wonders if he is actually doing himself any good. The man in front of him is far from the one that he recalls vaguely from Whitehall - divorced, in fact, from what most men would call the semblance of humanity.

He looks, Hennessey suddenly thinks, like Icarus, if that unlucky boy had fallen not into the waiting sea but to earth, crashing through a canopy of trees to land, just barely alive, in the underbrush below. He is bloodied - his face is thin and dirty, his clothing hangs from his frame, and he has a two-week growth of beard. There are scars visible beneath the open neck of his shirt, and at his wrists and bare ankles. There is something wild in his gaze - a sort of unhinged air to him that Hennessey had last seen from the dog that lives in the alley behind his house.  He is still lucid, though, and growing more so with every second, now, here, in the carriage that is taking him away from the hell to which his own father has consigned him. He is sitting forward, hands yet held close together as if still shackled. They shake, Hennessey notices - scarcely perceptibly, but the lad’s hands are trembling, and in the next instant he seems to follow the line of Hennessey’s gaze and looks down. He raises his hands in front of him as though he scarcely recognizes them. They are rough, Hennessey realizes - from what, he does not know, but Thomas Hamilton’s hands are not what he would expect out of a lord - and Thomas looks at them as if he, too, is surprised to see the roughened tips and the blackened nail on one finger and the tremors that move through them periodically. He stares for a moment, and then drags them backward over his hair, too short to be fashionable and speaking of the barber’s shears. He grimaces.

“Where are they?” he asks, and Hennessey frowns.

“I will explain, but for now -”

Later, when Hennessey finds himself wondering at what moment he stopped thinking of Thomas Hamilton as a convenient ally and started thinking of him as the man he will one day call son-in-law, he will recall this moment. He will think of this first impression - and of the moment that he realizes that if Thomas is Icarus, then Hennessey is certainly cast in the role of Daedalus, long-suffering and cautious, come to rescue his wayward progeny, for so he feels at this moment, looking at Thomas.

He is expecting indignation. He is expecting anger, or condemnation - something, anything that would remind him of Alfred Hamilton and remind him of who this boy’s father is. The lad’s brothers would not disappoint. He has met them both - arrogant arses equaled only by every other noble scion in London, and he expects no better from Thomas, and yet -

Thomas does not straighten his spine the way his father would do. He does not look down his long nose at Hennessey, or open his mouth to remind anyone of his station. Instead -

Instead Thomas simply - slumps, as if he has had all his strings cut, and he closes his eyes.

“What is it that you would have of me in exchange for their whereabouts?” he asks, and the weariness in his voice could fell armies, send them all weeping away from the battlefield. There is defeat in his voice - defeat in every line of his body. He sits, hands clasped about the back of his neck where they have come to rest, his elbows resting on his thighs, and Hennessey fancies that he can actually see the despair rolling off of Alfred’s eldest in waves.  It is a reaction that Hennessey has not expected. Worse - it is a reaction that makes him wish to reach forward, place a hand on the younger man’s shoulder - do anything, _anything_ other than sitting in this carriage, stiff-backed and stiff-necked, looking down at the sores on Thomas’ wrists from the shackles.

“I -” Hennessey begins, startled. He has his hands at his sides, and yet he feels the urge to fidget, suddenly, in a way he has not done since he was a young lieutenant no more than Thomas’ age. He stares at the young man for a moment, words suddenly gone. Thomas looks up, and there is something profoundly cynical in his gaze.

“I would offer what remains of my sanity, but I’m not sure there is much left to give. I have little else, I’m afraid.”

“You -” Hennessey starts, and then stops again, gathering himself. “You have knowledge,” he answers. “Of your father, do you not?”

Thomas gives a short, sharp laugh.

“Given where I landed, I would think you might draw the conclusion that I no more know my father’s mind than I do your own.”

“It is not his mind I am concerned with,” Hennessey answers. “You are aware of his business. His dealings in Parliament. His - weaknesses which trouble him as any man.” The words are an echo - he’s repeated them to himself enough times, heard his own voice saying them in his nightmares, and he cannot help allowing them to slip out of his mouth now. Thomas looks up at him, and the look on the younger man’s face -

Hennessey turns away. He cannot look at Thomas. He cannot see in his eyes the shadow of the young man Hennessey had condemned so roundly that day, cannot look at him and hear James’ attempts to breathe, panicked and gasping at the sudden ruin of his life. He cannot.

“I have been in Bethlem for the past year,” Thomas points out quietly. “I am not certain what you wish to know, but -”

“You were locked in Bethlem for a reason,” Hennessey interrupts him, still looking out the window. “Had your vile toad of a father wished, he could have overridden my objections to put my James in your place, and yet instead he agreed to see you imprisoned - jumped on the suggestion when I made it, in fact.”

He has said it. There it is, the truth, horrible in its lack of adornment, and Hennessey shuts his eyes. He will either die in the next few moments - or not, depending on Thomas’ reaction, and either way Hennessey finds that he does not care. Thomas shifts, and Hennessey looks back to him and -

Yes. There he is. There is the man that Hennessey has expected to see, all this time. He is sitting up, now, he sees - straightening, hands going to his sides, blue eyes gone hard.

“You sent me there,” he says, his tone suddenly icy. “To that - pit of misery. You suggested it?”

“I suggested Newgate,” Hennessey admits. “His Lordship, the Earl of Ashbourne, would hear none of it. I am - truly sorry, for what it is worth. Had I suspected -”

“You came up with the entire scheme.” Thomas’ voice is still frightening - cold, and hard, and Hennessey feels something in him snap.

“Your wretched father appeared in my office and by the grace of God, I managed to convince him not to murder my protegé, a feat in itself, I assure you. That you have suffered by it I regret, but given that neither of you is dead, I shall count it a victory. I should like to point out that by your arrogance -”

“James lives, then,” Thomas interrupts, and Hennessey sees his error. There is a glint in Thomas’ eyes - a dangerous one, and Christ, Hennessey has been playing the Game all these years and he has just given up vital information to a man half his age and, apparently, twice again his own cunning, for he would certainly have counted Thomas Hamilton as no more than a minor player until this very moment. That assessment, it would seem, has been an error - and one he is glad to have made, for it bodes well for his plans.

“He lives, or he did when last we spoke. I have reason to believe he lives still, though I may not confirm it easily.”

“What reason?” Thomas asks, his eyes still on Hennessey, and Hennessey marvels for a moment. The man is a wreck - in truly horrifying condition, and yet here he sits, more concerned for James’ fate than his own. It is - enlightening, and humbling, and for just a moment - just long _enough_ \- Hennessey considers that he may have been wrong about Thomas Hamilton. It is just possible.

“There have been rumors,” he says finally, reluctantly. “Reports which lead me to believe that he is neither dead nor without plans to see you returned to him. Reports which I will share -” he holds up a hand, cutting off Thomas’ impending question, “- when you have recovered somewhat and when we have spoken at greater length.” The carriage rattles to a halt, and Thomas looks out the window, startled. He reaches out, pulling the curtain aside - and Hennessey sees the moment that he realizes where they are.

“Is this -?” he starts, and turns back to Hennessey, who gestures to Thomas to open the door and disembark. “You would bring me to your home?” he finishes, the words almost a whisper, and Hennessey can see the younger man’s face as he says it - sees the flash of longing, and fear, and anger, and naked disbelief that passes over Thomas’ features, before the lad turns back to Hennessey, who raises an eyebrow.

“I liberated you from one prison - I was hardly likely to deliver you to another given that I find myself in need of your assistance. I would far rather have us allies than jailer and charge.”

Thomas looks as if his world has been rocked. He closes his eyes, and Hennessey thinks he sees the man mouth a swift, fervent prayer. When he opens his eyes again, the look in them has shifted - from the icy calculation of moments before to something like wary approachability.

“And if I were to walk away when I hear your terms?” he asks, his voice shaking slightly. Hennessey looks him up and down frankly, and Thomas colors at the implied assessment of his physical state and prospects for garnering other allies.

“I will not stop you, although I doubt you will find better,” Hennessey answers, and Thomas swallows hard. He is not weeping, but he is on the verge of it, Hennessey realizes, and finally, he can take it no longer. He reaches out and places a hand on Thomas’ shoulder, ignoring the younger man’s startled flinch at the gesture, and squeezes lightly. “Come inside,” he offers. “At least have a bite to eat and a bath before you tell me to go to hell.”

 

*****************************************************************************

“Fetch Lord Hamilton something to eat and see him to his room. And bring water for bathing - hot as you can. If it is tepid, heads will roll. Lord Hamilton - I hope that you will join me in the study in a few hours.”

The Admiral’s voice sounds from behind Thomas, but he is not truly paying attention to it. This cannot be. It simply cannot be - and yet, he thinks, in a sort of daze, it is too strange not to be real, in a sense.

Hennessey’s home is large, although not as spacious as Thomas’ own snug two-story home on Albemarle Street. He does not have much time to look about him - he is moved quickly inside the residence, seen to an upstairs chamber (and he cannot believe how difficult the moving about is. He has not walked this much in nearly a year, nor climbed a set of stairs in as long, and his thighs burn with the exertion by the time he reaches the top). The servants are patient with him - too patient, only barely touching him where absolutely necessary, rendering the entire experience dream-like, somehow. Reality does not reassert itself properly until the moment that he stands, alone, in front of a tub full of steaming water, staring in uncomprehending silence at the mirror that hangs over the washstand some distance away.

Water. Hot water, not cold, and soap that smells like perfume, not lye, and clothing that won’t scratch against his skin or become a haven for fleas within a day lying on a stool nearby. Such simple things, and yet it has been - how long has it been since he has had any of them? How long since the last time he has been treated with anything even close to real care? He had not asked the Admiral the date, preoccupied as he has been by the near giddy joy that threatens to overwhelm him at the idea of walking unfettered again. He is free. It is the only thought that had mattered when he first emerged from Bethlem into the cold air - still is, if he is honest with himself, for what obstacle can possibly compare to what he has already faced? He trails a hand through the water and thrills at the delicious warmth of it, and then, unable to wait a moment longer to wash Bethlem off of himself, he strips off the hospital uniform. He turns back toward the tub - and stops.

For all his eagerness of a moment before, he finds that he cannot quite force himself to move - cannot force himself to actually get in the water. The neat, well-appointed room fades away, replaced just for a moment by the cold and the damp and the smells of Bethlem, and he shudders and closes his eyes. It does not help matters, and when he opens them again, he’s breathing harder, clutching the edge of the tub as if for dear life. With an effort of will, he lets go and stands, shaking, listening just for a moment to the silence. There is no one else. No orderlies waiting to dunk him if he does not comply with their orders. No doctors. No patients screaming in the distance.  He is, for the first time in what seems an age, blessedly alone. He is not cold. He is not about to be submerged against his will to emerge shivering and be forced to sit until his arms and legs have gone numb. This is not Bethlem.

He repeats the mantra to himself until his breathing evens out, and he runs another hand through the water, ensuring it is still warm. This is not Bethlem. This is not Bethlem.

At last, he forces himself forward. This is not Bethlem, and he can do this. With clenched teeth, he sits down - only to stand up again a moment later, heart pounding, breathing as hard as if he had been running.

Thomas has always thought of the sun as the enemy for those who would strap on wax wings. It is only now, staring at the full tub, that he appreciates the two-fold threat presented by sun and sea in concert. The water sits, mocking him, and he glares down at it.

He is free. He has been released from the hospital, and yet here he stands, dripping water into the tub, and completely unable to force himself to sit down again and feel the water closing about him. Each time he contemplates lowering himself into the tub, there arises in him a sense of doom, as if at any moment the entire day might prove to have been an illusion, crafted by his father to break him at last. The thought is a chilling one. Is there a chance this is all a ploy of some kind?  Will Alfred be waiting for him the moment he walks into the study, sitting like the malevolent spider he is, waiting to break him utterly with his presence?  He looks around the room, momentarily struck by the urge to flee, or at the very least to ensure that no matter what happens, he will not be taken back to Bethlem without a fight. He is not going to go quietly this time, not as he had the first time, before he understood what his father is truly capable of.

There is a gust of wind outside, and the barest hint of it makes its way under the closed door, swirling around the room and raising gooseflesh on his exposed skin.  He is still standing here, quite bare, in Admiral Hennessey’s guest bedroom. The realization is enough to shake him from his dark thoughts, and, with a start, he realizes where they had been heading. He has been contemplating running - truly, honestly contemplating what he will do if the Admiral has lied to him and is in league with his father, with a cynicism he scarcely believes has come from him of all people.  Dear God in Heaven, what has he become that he can bring himself to expect such betrayal when Hennessey has rescued him from the madhouse?  What other parts of himself will he find have been altered irrevocably? What else has Bethlem stolen from him along with his innocence, his faith, his pride, his dignity, his health -

He is crying, he realizes suddenly. The tears have welled in his eyes and now are spilling down his cheeks. His shoulders are shaking, and the sound of his sobbing is quite audible in the relatively small washroom.  His breath hitches again, and he raises a hand to his mouth, head bent forward, his other arm tucked against his chest, attempting to at least muffle the sound.  It is bound to bring the servants eventually, and he does not need them to find him standing without a stitch of clothing on weeping like a lost child.  

He stays there, now half-sitting on the edge of the tub, trying and failing to bring himself back under control, until, chest hurting and head pounding, he comes to the end of his tears and wipes them away with the back of one hand, feeling somehow empty and yet less as if there is something inside him threatening to eat him alive. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, pushing away the yawning chasm of anger and betrayal and anguish he has inadvertently fallen into, and steps back out of the water. He had intended to take a bath, he reflects wryly, and has somehow ended up cleansing his soul in the process.

Spiritual cleansing has done little for the rest of him, however. He is still covered in Bethlem’s reek, and that will not do. With that thought in mind, he takes hold of the washcloth that has been left for his use, dipping it in the tub and then carefully wringing it out and running it over himself, making liberal use of the soap that sits beside it. He cannot bathe properly, perhaps, but he will still be clean. It will have to do. He pauses for a moment at his hair and then, with a grimace, leans over the tub and dips and wrings the washcloth out again over his head, sending water sluicing down over his neck and shoulders. He scrubs his soap-covered fingers through his hair, rinses once more, and then stands, the blood that has been rushing to his head receding as he steps out of the tub. He dries off quickly and dresses, feeling slightly odd as he does so.

He has not worn so many layers since the day he was taken to Bethlem. The cravat in particular is strange and yet familiar, a weight against his throat he will need to re-acclimate himself to. He winces at the way his clothing hangs on him. He has lost weight - that much is evident, as is the need for a good tailor, at least until he comes back to some semblance of himself as he had been, and he suddenly wonders at the state of his accounts - more specifically, whether he has any such thing, now that his father has had him committed to the care of the asylum. The money for his care if it can be called such has to have come from somewhere, and Thomas is grimly certain that his father will not have opened his own purse to acquire the necessary funds.

That he can wonder at such things - that this now constitutes his largest problem - nearly sets him to weeping again, followed by irritation at his newfound utter lack of the self control he had developed so swiftly behind Bethlem’s walls. Why, he wonders, is it that he has not wept since the earliest days in the hospital, and yet now cannot seem to dry his eyes for more than half an hour at a go?

“My lord?” The knock on the door startles him, and he turns. The title, he thinks, is another thing to which he will need to reacclimate. It has been some time since he has been called by anything other than his given name. They had been fond, in Bethlem, of reminding him over and over again that he was not in charge of anything, his own body and what happened to it included, and now -

“Come in,” he calls. He takes a deep breath as the door begins to open, steadying himself. He wills his hands to be still at his sides. He can do this, he tells himself. He can be himself - at least enough not to frighten the servants, or give Hennessey reason to doubt his ability to do whatever it is the older man wants of Thomas.

The servant enters the room, and Thomas sees the man’s eyes dart around the room. What he is expecting, Thomas does not know, but he does not seem to find it, and he cannot possibly miss the sigh of relief the man breathes.

“My lord,” he greets, and sets the plate of food in his hands on the small desk. He straightens, and then flashes a smile in Thomas’ direction. “Is there anything further you require?” He stands, looking over Thomas’ shoulder to the wall behind him, and with a start, Thomas realizes that the man is waiting to be answered - or dismissed.

“No,” he says. “You - may go.” He stumbles over the phrase, and the servant looks momentarily concerned.

“My lord?” he asks, and Thomas shakes his head.

“Convey my thanks to Admiral Hennessey,” he manages.

“The Admiral - had requested you join him,” the servant reminds, and Thomas nods. It is all he can do not to jump to his feet whenever the man speaks, as if he were the servant and not the one being served. He has been a member of the peerage all his life and yet it seems the past several months have wiped every acceptable mannerism belonging to an English lord from his head. The servant seems to understand as much, for he bows, seemingly to cover the brief look of sympathy that crosses his face, and Thomas feels irritation well up in him, not at the servant, but at the situation. He should not require sympathy. He should not look the part of the poor, abused wretch in need of succour - he should not _be here_. He tamps the feeling down - it is not appropriate, and he cannot afford to feel it while still he remains under Hennessey’s roof, his prisoner in all but name, for surely the man cannot mean it when he says that he will not impede Thomas from leaving this house. He needs something - something that Thomas can provide, although Thomas cannot fathom what, and the thought gnaws at him almost as much as the hunger he is beginning to feel at the smell of the food on the plate before him.

The servant has gone, and Thomas lifts the cover on the tray. He is hungry - terribly so, if he allows himself to acknowledge it, and yet -

The food looks - real, he thinks in a sort of daze. There is no gruel. No bread that would better have been given to the pigs, none of the dreaded cheese that Thomas has grown to despise the taste of. Instead - glory be to God, there is fruit, and a significant quantity of it. There is real meat, and a pitcher which proves to be full of clear, clean water. He sits, clean and warm, with a plate of food before him and -

Whatever Hennessey wants, Thomas thinks to himself, it must be something very great indeed. A favor of a magnitude Thomas can scarcely imagine, and whatever it is, the older man might just get it. The thought - and the sheer gratitude that sweeps over him - frighten him for a moment. He sits, the food still laid out in front of him, and for a single moment he considers rejecting it. He considers, just for an instant, telling Hennessey where to stick his charity - his sympathy, his damned _help,_ all too little, all too late, and who the _hell_ does he think he is, anyway, pulling Thomas out of Bethlem only to deny him news of the ones he loves and attempt to win his approval through cheap gestures? How dare he? Thomas seethes, and then his stomach growls, and he looks down at the food.

It is not drugged. Probably. In Bethlem, after a time, he had learned how to sniff out the purgatives they tried slipping into his food when they could not force them past his teeth any longer, and he has caught none of their foul odor here. This food is safe, and if he does not eat now, he cannot be certain it will be on offer later. He may as well fill his stomach before he goes to do something reckless and stupid and perhaps by the time he has finished eating, Miranda’s voice will have gained better traction within him, warning him to tread lightly and see what Hennessey wants before he denies him outright.

He cannot, perhaps, wrest back from Bethlem the bits of his soul that he has lost, but he can, if he tries, begin to reclaim both health and dignity. He sits up and begins to eat, each bite feeling like a very small rebellion. He will be well again, and strong. He will.

******************************************************************

Alfred Hamilton, Hennessey thinks, is likely foaming at the mouth by now.

He can imagine the old Earl’s fury. It will be impressive - there is no doubt about that, but he also has little doubt that soon - very, very soon - he will have the means in hand to see to it that the damnable bastard pays for what he has done.

He puts his feet up. Thomas, he thinks, is likely to take some time to arrive - if he arrives at all, and Hennessey wonders whether the younger man will prove to have the steel left in his spine to treat with Hennessey tonight - or rather, not to. After all, if it were him - if someone had taken him from a living hell and offered him a room with a bed, he might very well decide that a few hours’ rest was in order and keep that person waiting. There is no point, after all, in seeming too eager. He has a feeling that Thomas knows it.

With a start, he realizes what he has been thinking. When, he wonders, did Thomas cease to be Lord Hamilton the Younger and start being a person whom Hennessey thinks of in terms of what he himself would do?

He removes his feet from the desk, and sits up straight. He has become too complacent in this - too assured of his own victory, and he has seldom found a better antidote to overconfidence than rigid attention to rules and a good strong dose of caution. He can begin by sitting up straight and tidying his desk while he’s at it.

In the next moment he stops, anticipation thrumming through him. If he plays his cards right - if he has judged this correctly -

He has cast himself as Daedalus in this tale. He has not, however, forgotten that Daedalus was a man wronged - wronged, and robbed of a son, and what, he wonders, might have followed had the pair but made it to land, Icarus clinging desperately to his father’s outstretched arms? What schemes of theirs might have made King Minos tremble in his sandals?

He intends to find out.

*********************************************************************

If this is an attempt to manipulate him, it is a damned strange one.

It is a thought that occurs to him as he stands once more, brushing imaginary crumbs off himself as he does so. There is nothing to brush - he has been most careful not to waste a single bit of the first decent food he has had in perhaps a year and now -

Now, he thinks, Admiral Hennessey is waiting for him downstairs, and he feels he may just possibly be in a mental condition to be able to keep up with the older man. He is warm, now; the shaking in his hands has gone now that he has given his body something with which to stick his soul back together, and he thinks he may even have the wherewithal to shave the scraggly beard that is the last remnant of his time in Bedlam. If he calls the servant now - he has not caught the man’s name, but he will this time, and he will ask him if a razor may be found.

The face that he shows to the Admiral the second time around will be a far cry from that of the ragged prisoner he has been for the past year, and with any luck, the change in his appearance will be enough to mask the uncertainty that still courses through him at the thought of what the man may want.

And - some small part of his mind whispers, the part that has not been entirely beaten out of him, no matter how hard they may have tried - perhaps, just perhaps, the man James had claimed as a father figure of sorts may not have in mind to ruin Thomas entirely. Perhaps this time -

Perhaps, whispers another part of him - the more dangerous part, the part that Bedlam has given birth to - perhaps this is the chance he has hoped for, in the darkest nights. Here, perhaps, is the chance to make Alfred quake in his boots.

The thought frightens him. He should not want this, and yet - has he not sworn that he will see this put to rights? Has he not told himself that what James would undoubtedly have done for him, he will do for himself and his lover - for his wife, for the life that has been taken from her, too?

He should wait. He should stay in this room, and rest, and make Hennessey sweat a bit longer. He should turn his attention to every lesson that Miranda and his foul father have ever imparted upon him when it comes to negotiating and hedge his bets, find some kind of leverage - do anything but appear in the study as directed like some kind of servant himself, and yet -

He stands here, clothed, fed, blessedly clean, and perhaps it is the change in his circumstances, but he finds himself optimistic again for the first time in months. If he trusts Hennessey - if he allows himself to believe that he does not lie when he says that Thomas is a free man - might they not work together toward the same goal?

He is a damned fool, and he knows it. He has hoped too much once already. He has tried too hard, attempted the impossible, ignored the pleas of those who would temper his hubris. This reaching - this attempt at second flight - is a foolish risk, and it is one that Thomas cannot bring himself not to take, because there must be some point to all of this. There must, or he feels he will shatter. His suffering must be toward some end that he may live with. He repeats the mantra to himself as the servant, Jonas, he learns, shaves his face for him and as he talks himself into emerging from the guest room. There is a point and a purpose to all of this, and he will discover it. He will restore what he can of who he was and it begins here, with this - with an act of faith, and wings made from feathers and twine, this time (flammable, all too flammable, and yet sturdy too, and _different_ \- different enough, he hopes).

“Lord Hamilton,” Hennessey says, rising as Thomas enters the parlor, and Thomas stands, looking at him, wondering when the other shoe will drop. He is Lord Hamilton again for the moment. How quickly, he wonders, will he become once more merely Mad Tom of Bedlam?

He reaches out, nonetheless, and takes the hand the Admiral extends to him, shaking it as firmly as he may.

“Admiral. I - appreciate the thoroughness of your staff. Please do let them know I appreciate their efforts.”

The Admiral’s eyebrows raise.

“You would have a word with me.” Thomas dispenses with small talk, and Hennessey looks at him, assessing. Judging. Weighing.

“I half expected you to bolt,” he confesses, and Thomas looks him in the eye.

“You mentioned my father - and his business dealings. Why?” He has lost much of his eloquence, he is discovering - along with his patience, and many other things, and yet it seems to have garnered precisely the result that he has wished for.

“You seem much recovered,” Hennessey says, gesturing to Thomas as if to indicate his general state. “When first I saw you I was not certain if I had rescued a man or a scarecrow.”

“My father would no doubt have preferred the latter,” Thomas quips. Hennessey’s mouth turns upward - and Thomas feels a rush of relief.

“How would you like” Hennessey asks, slowly, deliberately, “to see to it that he pays for his misdeeds?”

Thomas feels his brow furrow.

“In what way?” he asks, and Hennessey scowls.

“On the day you were imprisoned,” he says, “I was forced to dismiss Lieutenant McGraw from her Majesty’s service. It was against my will - anathema to who I have tried to be to him all these years, and your loathsome toad of a father saw to it that I had no time to speak to him afterward.”

Thomas closes his eyes. James. Dear God - he must have been devastated. His career means so much to him - as did the man before him.

“How could you?” he asks, and Hennessey rises from his chair.

“I saw little other option,” he snaps. “James has been in my charge since he was nine years old. I raised him! I took him in, gave him a home and a career and now -”

Hennessey stops, and Thomas opens his eyes, just in time to catch the flicker of utter sorrow that moves across Hennessey’s features. It is followed by resolve - hard and cold as the thing that Thomas has felt growing in himself since the day he was first tortured in the name of curing him of what he feels for James.

“Alfred Hamilton,” Hennessey says wearily, “has his fingers in every dealing in London. There is nothing happens in this city that does not have him in it somehow, and I am damned if I can find a way to prove any of it. I am hoping that you may know a way that I do not. Help me, damn it, and perhaps we may together bring James and your wife home again.”

Here it is. Here is what Hennessey wants -

And Thomas breathes a sigh of relief - a laugh, almost. He was right, it seems, to believe in something. He moves forward slowly, pulls out a chair, and sits down, across from Hennessey, and gives the man a look that cannot help but be filled with a sort of hysterical happiness.

“Admiral,” he says, “you have a partner.”

Together, they will step into the sun, stronger this time, and Crete will burn.

 

Epilogue:

 

They receive both letters on a Saturday.

James is home - for once, he is here, and Miranda is glad of it, because she cannot imagine the effect the first might have had on her were she here in this house by herself.

 _Thomas is dead,_ the letter says, in Peter Ashe’s neat handwriting. _He took his own life in Bedlam. I am so sorry._ The facts are neatly spelled out, the language used that of grief and mourning.

 _I am alive_ , the second note says, in Thomas clear, firm hand. _I am here, and Peter Ashe is a liar. Do not believe anything he says. I live and I am safe. Come home - come home to me_ , and she watches James stroke the words, watches him mouth them over and over again, a look of profound relief on his sun-tanned face. She burns the other - with an oath and a promise that if she ever sees Peter again, she will make him pay for his treachery. _I am alive,_ Thomas' letter says, _and our enemies are dead, save one. Come home to me, and I will see you both safe from him as well._

 _James,_ the third note, smaller, somehow tentative, says. _Your Thomas is a force of nature. Come home. I am sorry._

 _Come home,_ Miranda reads, and crushes the letter to her breast as James grabs hold of her shoulders, spinning both of them around while he embraces her, until the burning sun and the sea are both behind them.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments are <3.


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